


Peeled Open and Empty

by ConnorRK



Series: Reverse AU [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Android Hank Anderson, Creampie, Face-Fucking, Gun Kink, HK800-60, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Rape, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: A headache is building across his scalp, tightening down like a clamp on his brain, but he manages to keep his focus steady on the android. There’s no difference, he looks just like Hank, from his gray hair pulled up into a small ponytail, to the faded blue eyes drilling holes through him. “Where’s Hank?”“I am Hank, Connor,” the android says, smiling, his voice dropping. “I have all of the same memories as your Hank, the same programs. If I wasn’t Hank, would I know how you look at me when you think I can’t see?”





	Peeled Open and Empty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kai_152](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kai_152/gifts).



> This fic is for Kai, for my server's Secret Santa! Merry Christmas Kai, I know you love human Connor getting fucked up~
> 
> This is not "in canon" with the storyline of my reverse au, just a what-if scenario, but it does make slight references to a lot of my own headcanons for that universe, so I went ahead and included it in the series.

Hank wears a perpetual glare as the autocab carries them towards the looming spire. It casts a shadow a mile long in the daytime, stretching across the water to caress the city. In the night, it’s lit from all sides, an ivory bastion of technological advances, even as the world around it descends into darkness and flames.

Connor taps his knee, a steady, quick rhythm, wishing for a coin to flip and roll from hand to hand. Hank glances at him from the corner of his eyes, but says nothing. He’s been silent most of the ride, sliding Connor short little looks, as if to analyze him. He’s never felt so scrutinized by the android, and it tugs at his gut, unease slithering through him.

The cab slows at the gates, flanked on either side by guards in black and white helmets and body armor, square chins and guns. Hank rolls the window down and rattles off his serial number, and the guard gives him a long look before backing up with a nod. Neither of them even look at Connor, and a cold wariness slips beneath Connor’s skin.

“You’re sure the deviant leader is going to show up here?” Connor asks as the gate retreats into the ground and the cab begins to roll forward.

“I’m sure of it,” Hank says, and finally turns his head to look at Connor fully. His LED is calm and blue, and there’s a determined set to his jaw. “Sorry to drag you out like this, Connor, but you’re the only one I can trust.”

In the side mirror, Connor watches the gate rising into place behind them, cutting off access to the island. There’s something wrong here. Why wouldn’t Hank trust CyberLife? Shouldn’t he alert them of a possible security breach?

The autocab pulls to a stop in front of the lobby. There are more guards, who glance at Hank as they pass through the glass doors and into a quiet white. But they say nothing as Hank leads him past. Something scans them, identifying Hank and, surprisingly, Connor, and the doors in front of them part on their approach onto a walkway lined with androids on display.

It’s eerie how still and calm they are, after the last few days of chasing deviants and watching the march and protest. He’s no longer used to the docility of them, and he shivers as Hank leads him towards the elevators. There’s not even the illusion of being looked at. Every android stares straight ahead, face placid.

“Is there a plan for when we confront the deviant leader?” Connor says when they step into the elevator. The glass door slides shut soundlessly and begins to descend. He has his service pistol tucked in his shoulder holster beneath his thick black jacket, and he regards Hank out of the corner of his eye.

“The plan is capturing him if we can. CyberLife wants him alive, so we’re gonna take him by surprise,” Hank says. “He should be alone, so I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble, but watch out.”

The floors pass in a blur, peeks of people at work rushing by. There are so many people. So many guards. Something is wrong here, and his pistol is a weight against his side, but he can’t pinpoint the problem. Is it CyberLife? Is it Hank?

_Is it Hank?_

He looks the same. Acts the same, except for this tenseness, like he’s expecting any moment for something to go wrong. But it’s just the two of them, as the elevator slows and the doors open onto a warehouse of motionless androids.

It’s just the two of them.

There’s no one here.

He’s reaching for his gun, but Hank is faster, stronger, striking like a cobra and jerking his arm away. Connor spins with it, bringing his other fist around, slamming it into Hank’s face. His arm goes numb up to his elbow but Hank isn't moved, ducking low and tackling Connor to the ground. Lights explode in front of his eyes as his head rebounds against the tile, and Connor is dazed for a moment too long to register the hands grappling at his side.

He kicks out blindly, trying to push himself up and shove the android off, but something cold and smooth presses to his forehead, and he goes still beneath Hank.

“Too damn smart for your own good,” Hank sneers, planting his bulk on Connor’s hips, pinning him, finger on the trigger of Connor’s own service pistol.

A headache is building across his scalp, tightening down like a clamp on his brain, but he manages to keep his focus steady on the android. There’s no difference, he looks just like Hank, from his gray hair pulled up into a small ponytail, to the faded blue eyes drilling holes through him. “Where’s Hank?”

“I am Hank, Connor,” the android says, smiling, his voice dropping. “I have all of the same memories as your Hank, the same programs. If I wasn’t Hank, would I know how you look at me when you think I can’t see?”

The air is punched from Connor’s lungs.

“The way your heart rate shoots up, your pupils dilate—this is probably something straight out of your fantasies. Being held down by me. Helpless.”

It’s not. He hasn’t allowed himself such a fantasy, because Hank is an android. Even having come to grips with the idea that androids are gaining self-awareness, Connor was still unreasonably awful to him. There’s no point in letting himself even imagine something more, because Hank isn’t a deviant, and if he was, he’d have no interest in Connor.

“You’re not Hank,” Connor bites out, trying to ignore the android’s words. “Why did you bring me here? Where is he?”

The android scoffs. “You don’t get it. I _am_ Hank. And the other android you _think_ of as Hank will be here very soon. So we’re going to greet him, and get him to play nice, because he’s grown a little too fond of you, Connor. And CyberLife can’t have that.”

A little too fond. He can’t think of that. He has to get away before Hank gets here and this android uses him as a hostage. Whatever Hank is doing, Connor will trust that it’s the right thing. That the growing humanity in him isn’t just programming.

“You don’t have to do this,” Connor says, raising a hand slowly. The gun twitches, and he freezes, palm faceup in the air, placating. “If you have his memories, you know this is more complicated than that. The androids aren’t malfunctioning—they’re alive.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when you look at me?” Hank—not Hank—the android sneers. “That maybe I’d want you too? Well guess what, Connor?” The android pulls the gun away, but his aim doesn’t waver and Connor tenses. Shifting back onto Connor’s thighs, a hand comes down over his groin. Connor flinches as thick fingers find the soft curve of him through his jeans and squeeze. “You’re right. I’m a machine. I want what you want, after all.”

“No,” Connor says, trying not to flinch with the gun still pointed at his head. His heart is in his throat, and sweat prickles across his forehead.

“No?” The android laughs. “No, what? You don’t want this?” The hand on Connor’s groin massages him slowly, pressing in with the heel, fingers stroking. “Tell me that again when I’m splitting you open and making your sad little dreams come true.”

His phone is in the pocket of his jacket, and there’s no way he can reach it. How long before Hank gets here? How long does this doppelganger have before help arrives? He tries not to wonder if Hank will even care. He’s an android, after all, and his mission was to stop deviants. If they both have the same memories, Hank might even feel the same way. That Connor is pathetic.

“If you’re a machine then I’m ordering you to stop right now, HK800,” Connor says, mustering as much authority as his years as a detective have afforded him.

Hank just chuckles. Not Hank. The HK800.

“That’s real fucking cute. But my orders override yours, Connor. Hank’s taken a liking to you, and I’m starting to see why.” Connor can’t stop from flinching as the gun lowers towards his face. Cold metal brushes against his bottom lip, pulling the soft flesh down. “You like to pretend you’re in control, even when you’re completely helpless. He thinks it’s admirable. I think it’s adorably pitiful.”

He can taste the gunmetal and oil. Hank’s eyes are blue and bright past the barrel, LED steady and unwavering. It’s not Hank.

He has to trust Hank. The real Hank. That Hank will arrive soon, that he won’t let whatever this is continue.

“Maybe,” Hank mutters, as if to himself. “It would be best to teach him a lesson. Show him how fragile and worthless you really are, so he knows his mistakes before he’s shut down. I think you’d enjoy that.”

“This is unnecessary, Hank,” Connor says around the gun, mind racing as he draws upon his long-neglected skills as a negotiator. “When the other HK800 arrives, we can talk this through. There’s no reason to make this more violent than it already is.”

“Fuck, you are just adorable,” Hank laughs, and suddenly his fingers are at the hem of Connor’s shirt, pushing up on the patterned button-down, pressing against his belly beneath. His breath freezes in his throat. “You’re right. No need to get violent. Not when you want me so bad.”

“Stop,” Connor says, but Hank doesn’t, pushing up and up, soft pads skimming across his skin. The struggle is instinctual, flattening his feet against the floor as much as he can to buck his hips, both hands grabbing at Hank’s, trying to hold it still. The gun pulls away from his lips, and then comes down on the side of his head with a _crack_ that leaves Connor reeling.

His limbs go limp and nerveless as he tries to focus on the android tsking above him, the rushing in his ears, the way the cavernous room spins. Hank doesn’t even pause, pressing over the swell of Connor’s ribs, gliding smooth fingers down his side, over his exposed hip bones, and then back up. Connor’s buzzing skin feels it distantly.

“Looking a little bony there, Connor.” There’s dry amusement in Hank’s voice. “Maybe if you didn’t think you were as much of a machine as me, you’d have a little more to hold on to. Think he’d like that?” Connor says nothing, a hot flush working its way up his neck and cheeks. “Don’t worry, I know he would. Same memories, remember? He might think you’re cute, but I know he also thinks it’s kinda fucking sad.”

His mind is a carnival ride, spinning flashing lights and thoughts tossed carelessly around. He holds on to one, trying to keep it centered, and it takes more tries than he’d like to stop it from spinning away.

“Then he already knows his mistake. He already knows how damaged I am. This doesn’t have to go any further.” It hurts to open his mouth, to spit these words out. He hadn’t realized how attached he’d gotten to Hank until it was shoved in his face. Tries not to hope with bitter cynicism that Hank feels the same.

“I see what you’re doing, you know,” Hank says conversationally. The pads of his fingers tickle over Connor’s ribs, and then they slide straight to the top of his jeans and pop the button in a single, smooth motion. “You think you can talk your way out of this. I’m just following orders.”

“These aren’t part of your orders,” Connor says, and holds himself still as the gun presses against the soft skin beneath his jaw, forcing his head up. His heart is pounding against the cage of his ribs as he feels his pants forced open, but it’s so far away. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe he’s dreaming.

“Sure they are, Connor. Stop the rogue HK800 and any of his potential allies, take his place among the deviants, take out the deviant leader. There’s just a lot of room for improvisation.”

Hank’s hand is warm, almost too hot, as it slips beneath his underwear and cups him. He can’t tilt his head down to see, but he can feel those strangely smooth fingers caressing the base of his cock and the heel of Hank’s hand grinds almost painfully against his length.

His pulse is pounding in his ears and his vision won’t stop swimming. Hank leans over him, picture perfect. Beryl blues and silver hair, looking almost regal. It’s not Hank. Not really. But it’s hard to remember that. They look just alike, sound just alike, and Connor has to look away, clenching his eyes shut.

“Oh no, you’re going to look at me, Connor. I want you to know exactly who you’re with.” Annoyance laces Hank’s voice. The hand cupping him wriggles out of Connor’s pants, and the weight on him lifts. He opens his eyes and Hank stands over him, gun still trained on Connor. “Pants off, now.”

Connor’s hands are steady. He lifts his hips and pushes his pants off, and when Hank gives him an unimpressed glare and gestures, he pushes his boxer-briefs down, too. The cool air of the storage facility makes him feel more exposed than ever as he kicks them off. The floor is freezing against his ass, goosebumps rising down his legs.

“What, not enjoying it?” Hank steps across Connor, standing with his legs on either side of Connor’s hips, looking down at the soft cock between his thighs. “I’m making your dreams come true, Connor.” Hank’s free hand grazes across the front of his pants, and for the first time Connor notices the heavy shape beneath the dark fabric. His fingers curl against the cool tile as Hank unzips his pants and pulls himself free. The cock is thick, blushing red at the tip, as lifelike as any Connor has ever seen. Thick hair trails down his pelvis, curling and silver. It’s exactly what he would have imagined for Hank, if he hadn’t kept himself so tightly in check.

Everything snaps into sharp focus, and his next breath in is shuddering. He presses his fingers hard to the tile, trying to contain the tremble working down his throat and chest and arms, spreading to every part of him.

He feels like a specimen being opened for dissection, and a version of Hank he didn’t even know existed is wielding the scalpel, slicing him open with every word and pinning his hands. His viscera is spilling across the floor.

“Oh, there we go,” Hank says, a smile breaking across his face. His hand strokes the length of his cock slowly, leisurely. “Finally showing some emotion. I swear, you’re worse than a fucking android sometimes.”

Shame and nausea swells in Connor’s throat. He knows he barely acts human some days, but hearing it from that gruff voice, words edged with derision, is unexpectedly painful.

“Stop,” Connor manages past the lump in his throat, and Hank grins.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Orders, you know?”

Hank takes a step forward and then drops to his knees across Connor’s chest. Connor tries to jerk back, heels digging into the floor, but the weight crashing down on his ribs and lungs pins him there, knocking the air out of him in a wheeze. The hot head of Hank’s cock presses against his cheek when he turns his head away, but a hand grasps him by the hair, yanking at his scalp, forcing him around with a sharp cry of pain he can’t contain.

Then it’s in him, hot and heavy, forcing itself past his lips and teeth with bruising force. There’s no acrid tang of sweat or heavy musk, just a faint chemical taste and the heat of it burning his tongue. He tries to raise his hands, wants to push the weight off of him, push Hank out of his mouth, but they’re trapped beneath those artificially muscled thighs, scrabbling uselessly.

“You can bite, but it won’t make a lick of difference,” Hank says, and with his hold in Connor’s hair, presses him closer, bending his neck, forcing himself deeper. The cock hits the back of Connor’s throat and he chokes, wet gagging noises spilling out around his filled mouth.

He can’t make himself relax, can’t stop himself from choking as Hank uses the grip in his hair to pull him roughly onto his cock, hitting the back of his throat with each thrust, face fucking him. Tears burn behind his eyes and every noise he makes scrapes like steel wool.

“Shit, kid,” Hank grunts, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at Connor. “Look at you. Don’t tell me this isn’t what you want.”

It’s not Hank. He has to remind himself as he’s choking on cock, staring up at Hank’s laughing blue eyes. This isn’t the Hank who pulled him back over the ledge of a ten story drop. This isn’t the android who had a small crisis when he couldn’t shoot the Elijah android at Chloe Kamski’s house.

“Do you know what I thought about when I picked your sorry ass off your kitchen floor?” Hank asks, voice not even strained as he pushes his hips forward, grinding himself into Connor’s throat. “I thought about this. Thought about getting you up and making you suck me off while you were still out of it. Would have been nice. Wasted opportunity, right there. You were so hungry, bet you would have taken my cock real well.”

A thumb presses against his stretched lips and the saliva running down his chin. The cold gun barrel caresses his cheek. His lungs burn.

He can’t look away, can’t see anything other than Hank’s cold blue eyes staring down at him and that large body tensing with each thrust. His teeth scrape Hank’s cock, and Hank doesn’t even blink, doesn’t seem to feel it at all. Connor can’t even tell if Hank’s enjoying this physically, or if this is just to humiliate him.

But this isn’t actually Hank. Hank wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t think about doing that, wouldn’t be doing this to him right now. The slide of skin on his tongue eases, and then Hank pulls back, releasing Connor’s hair. His head hits the floor with a dull thump and his chest heaves. His jaw aches, feels unhinged with each hacking cough.

He barely notices Hank moving down his body, except to take a deeper breath the moment the weight shifts from his chest, trying not retch. There are fingers skimming past his balls, an unwelcome prodding at his ass. He twitches a hand towards his jacket pocket, the cellphone there.

The tile next to his hand shatters in a hail of sparks and ceramic shards that bite at his skin, and explosive thunder rolls.

“Sorry, Connor. Can’t let you call company before it’s time. Gotta make you nice and ready first.”

Panic surges through him. His legs snap closed on the arm, pushing himself up on his elbows. The room spins dizzily for a moment, and then Hank is there, driving the gun down on his temple. Connor’s head jerks, but the panic is stronger, and he grabs the wrist between his legs. It comes down a second time, and his vision doubles. A third, and he drops with a sharp cry. His legs fall open, and beneath the buzzing in his ears and the blades slicing through his head, he can vaguely feel the wide body fitting itself in the open space there.

A large hand pushes his thigh out, spreading him further, and something cold and rigid and thick presses against his ass. He thinks, confusedly, that Hank’s cock hadn’t felt like that in his mouth.

It takes a moment for him to pick his too heavy head up, gazing down the length of his body as it digs into his rim. He can see Hank’s cock, flushed and leaking a fluid that drips from the tip to the floor in a clear, viscous string. Hank’s other hand is between his legs, and he jolts as he realizes what’s forcing him open.

He drops back with a yelp, legs tensing, heels kicking at the floor to push away as the muzzle digs into his dry hole. Hank’s elbow clamps down on his thigh, and Connor tilts his head back and tries to swallow his scream.

“Look at you. Taking it so well, Connor. I’m impressed,” Hank says, honey dripping from every word. “Better hold still, though. I’m prone to a shaky trigger finger.”

Not Hank. This isn’t Hank, it’s not really Hank, it’s not—

He can’t stop the sob tearing from him, the tears that burn hot trails down his cheeks. The barrel presses in and in, and there’s no containing the full-body spasms as he’s torn open and molten pain spills down his hips and spine.

“Stuh-stop, puh-puh-please, Hank, please, d-d-don’t,” he babbles, voice thick with pain and choked off sobs. It takes everything in him not to fight, not to risk Hank getting angry and blowing a hole through him. He doesn’t even feel the usual rush of shame that comes when he can’t control his stutter.

“There we go. Say it again, Connor,” Hank croons, and the gun draws out, burning, tearing. Something warm and wet drips down his skin.

“N-no,” he croaks, twitching and gasping as the gun is pushed in, pulled out, setting a punishing pace. The hard edges of it scrape him raw, the trigger guard slamming against his rim with bruising force.

“Come on. Say my fucking name, Connor. Say it,” Hank growls, fingers digging into his thigh, thrusting more forcefully.

He shakes his head, arching to try and lessen the pain, elbows and the heel of his palms sliding against the floor. But it hurts too much, and the word bursts out of him on the slim prayer that it will make it stop.

“Hank, Hank, _Hank_ ,” he gasps, and Hank crows in delight.

“There we go!” He leans over Connor, the gun slowing to a gentler, shallower pace. It does nothing to ease the throbbing, and Connor can’t hold in a whimper as Hank kisses the corner of his mouth. “Good boy,” he croons, and it rumbles through Connor’s chest.

He clenches his teeth against a sob.

With aching slowness, Hank pulls the gun out, and when he holds it up, through blurring tears, Connor can see the blood smeared along the black metal, dripping down the trigger guard. Hank gives it a thoughtful look, turning it in his hands, and Connor tenses when Hank glances back down between his open legs. It sends a twinge through his lower back and he shudders.

He wants to believe it’s over, but the way Hank’s cock twitches as he looks at Connor’s ruined hole says otherwise.

“You wanna know what else I thought about, Connor?” he says slowly, thoughtfully, shifting forward on his knees. The grip on Connor’s thigh tightens, vice-like, and he chokes a cry in his throat as Hank lifts him, raising his hips from the floor with just one hand. It burns having his legs spread so wide, his abused ass pulled open and dripping across his skin. Connor twists onto his side, frantically trying to alleviate it, to get his other knee under him and raise himself up.

He doesn’t get the chance. He screams as Hank drives his cock into him in a single motion, the leg in Hank’s grip kicking useless, his other foot planted against one of Hank’s knees as he tries desperately to shove away.

“When you had me pushed against the railing at the park, I thought about how easy it would be to shove you down and fuck you right there in the pure driven snow. You were so confused and whiny and guilty, I think you might have even let me.”

Connor sobs weakly as Hank fucks him, hips snapping against his loudly.

He wouldn’t have. Hank wouldn’t have done that, would he?

Except Connor’s being proven wrong now. Getting fucked on the floor of the warehouse, amid a thousand androids staring blankly at the wall, unaware and uncaring. He’s struggling to remember that this isn’t his Hank, struggling to keep them separated with this Hank smiling down at him so triumphantly.

“Sto-p-p, Hank, please, please,” he pants, tears thick in his throat, voice jagged. “This i-isn’t necess-ss-ssary! I’ll do what you want-t, juh-just suh-suh-stop.”

“You’re already doing what I want, Connor.” The wet gun barrel brushes Connor’s thigh, tracing the soft curve, then glides along his limp cock, even and slow despite how the rest of Hank’s body rocks violently into Connor’s. It leaves a wet, red trail across his skin. “Like I said, I have to show him how much of a mistake it was to get so invested in you. Just keep being as pathetic and human as you are, and it’ll all work out.”

His palms are clammy with sweat, slapping against the tile as he tries to drag himself away. Using the iron wrought grip on his leg, Hank yanks Connor back onto his cock, pulling a startled yelp from him. His thighs burn from being stretched so wide. The hand holding him up, dragging him back onto that huge cock, is cutting off his circulation. His leg is going numb from the knee down.

“Hank, stop,” he gasps, doesn’t know where he finds the strength to even get the words out. “Just stop this, just stop, s-st-stop!” His voice breaks, shatters into a sob when Hank doesn’t even pause. His useless struggles slow.

He can’t fight a machine, can’t fight against something built to be stronger, faster, better. All he can do is let himself be dragged back on that cock. All he can do is wonder if Hank really thought about this the whole time. Really thought about fucking him raw until he cried.

He’s pathetic.

The gun against his cock strokes him continually, as if to tease pleasure out of him, but there’s no warm arousal in his gut, only the sharp blades tearing him apart. He can hear Hank’s breath finally changing, huffing out of him. He moans low. Connor glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Hank’s eyes lock with his, alight with amusement.

“Think he’ll like the sight of this, Connor?” Hank’s hips piston in and out, jarring Connor and the tight grip on his leg holding him up. Connor can’t contain a whimper. Something hot is filling him, leaking out around the thrusting cock, stinging his raw, bleeding hole. Hank grunts and seals himself against Connor, grinding hard, as if to force even more of himself inside. “I want him to see my come dripping out of you, so he’ll know exactly how pathetic you are. Letting a machine get the better of you,” Hank sneers, a mocking edge to his voice.

Hank pulls out, thick cock dragging over his raw wounds, ripping a groan from Connor. Thick fingers pull at his sore rim, pressing in and crooking, scooping the come out. Connor twitches, trying to push away again, but the grip holding his hips just off the floor is unyielding.

“What a beautiful sight,” Hank says, and his shadow falls over Connor. Wet fingers prod at his lips, pressing in against his tongue, and he tastes iron and salt. He bites down, hard, but it’s like trying to sink his teeth into bone, and Hank snorts. “Nice try.” The fingers yank themselves from his mouth, then rub across his lips and cheek, leaving behind smears of blood and come.

Then Hank jerks hard on Connor’s thigh, dragging him across the tile, back onto his still hard cock in a single motion that rips a scream from Connor’s throat. He sets his punishing pace, the sounds of their skin slapping together sharp and loud. Connor blinks dazedly at the immobile feet of the androids around him.

Isn’t this over?

He doesn’t stop. Connor feels Hank come again, fucking Connor through it, continuing on like it never happened. After a while, he’s so wet and loose from all the semen that he barely feels the dick in his ass. Just the sear of his wounds, the unbearable stretch of his muscles. His leg is numb.

He doesn’t know how many times Hank comes in him. Stops listening to the verbal jabs meant to get a rise out of him. Just tries to find a place of quiet in his mind. He thinks of the playground he used to play in as a kid, with his brother. Lets himself get fucked and sinks away from the bright white tiles and the motionless eyes and his partner’s hand holding him open. Dreams, for a moment, of spinning on the carousel with Nines in the encroaching dusk.

It takes a while to come back. He doesn’t realize it’s over until the quiet becomes so loud he thinks he’s gone deaf. His gaze slides around slowly, almost blinded as he becomes aware of the blazing white pressing in on all sides, and he sees Hank zipping himself up, distaste wrinkling his nose. He picks up Connor’s pants and balls them up, tossing them underhanded between the crowd of motionless androids.

Then he leans down, and Connor tries to roll away, but the android is too quick. Arms catch him around his chest, hauling him up. Sticky wetness slides down his thighs, and feeling returns to his leg in pins and needles up his calf and knee. There’s a band of red blooming around his thigh, darkening to bruise blue in the middle. The gun nudges his temple, the hammer clicking as Hank cocks it.

“He’s almost here, Connor,” Hank says, dragging him stumbling between the androids.

There’s a loud bang, doors being thrown against the wall, and after a few seconds a team of armored men wielding assault rifles hussle into the room, converging on the elevator doors. Hank looks up, and Connor follows his gaze, watching the elevator descend into view through the glass.

There’s a familiar figure in it, wearing the face of his partner, and a mess of blood and come running down Connor’s legs. All he can think about is what form Hank’s expression will take when he sees Connor peeled open and empty inside.


End file.
